


Six Times Found

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-22 10:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Arthur and Eames found each other over six different lifetimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Times Found

i.

The trenches are thick with the stench of blood and filth, and Arthur wipes his face with his sleeve, feeling mud settle stickily against his flesh of his torso. His shoulder twinges with the effort, leaking blood from a shrapnel wound, but on this battlefield, a soldier doesn't stop short of losing a limb.

The heavy air reverberates with the sound of gunfire, and Arthur barely flinches as a man a few feet in front of him is taken down. The body falls back and lands with a heavy sound, scarlet-tinged mud clinging to Arthur's eyelashes.

He retreats further into the trench, reloading his rifle as he goes, and he doesn't notice the figure behind him until they collide, knocking shoulders.

“Careful, love,” a low voice murmurs, and Arthur takes the words without comment, eyes catching on the man beside him. His cheeks are smeared black with dirt, his full lips bitten and chapped, but Arthur remembers that face, tucks it neatly into the back of his mind.

They find each other later that night during dinner. His name is Eames, and Arthur lets his eyes linger on that mouth, on those dark tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt. No one around them notices; they are all too busy fighting through the terror that bites into their soul like a bullet through flesh.

The words they share are sparse; they are unnecessary. Eames' mouth is soft and dry against Arthur's, and he lets Eames hold him and whisper sweet things into his ear, pressing his fingertips into tensed biceps and curling, dark tattoos. They are sheltered from judging eyes and the scent of death here, cooing and kissing until they must pick up their weapons and return to their call.

 

ii.

Arthur takes another slow sip of his champagne, the long-stemmed glass cradled between his fingers. He's never been fond of the crisp, bubbly flavor of champagne, but vodka is decidedly hard to come by at artistic functions.

This is where he feels most comfortable, at any rate—in a well-pressed suit, amongst art and the people who create it.

He'd never heard of William Eames, prior to this. Because of this, Arthur was understandably hesitant to come to the show, lest he be yet another hyped-up amateur...but now that he's here, surrounded by the work, he's very much wondering why he's never heard of him.

A piece across the room catches his eye, and he makes his way towards it, halting a few times to exchange greetings with friends, business partners and acquaintances alike. Despite his reputation for being a bit uptight and private, being the owner of an art gallery requires you by very nature to be social.

The painting is framed very simply, and Arthur nods approvingly at the clean-cut lines, eyes lingering on the piece. It's of a young man, his face mostly averted from the painter, wisps of dark, curling hair caught in the wind. The colors wind subtly across the canvas, allowing shadows to gather in the hollow of the man's throat and along the breadth of his shoulders.

“Ah.... Always a pleasure to find a gaze critical enough to burn through canvas,” says a warm, British-accented voice, and Arthur turns to meet the gaze of a tall, obviously well-built man, clashing in a god-awful paisley shirt and slacks. Arthur smiles a little—he knows an artist when he sees one.

“You're Mr. William Eames, I assume?” Arthur replies, shaking the other man's proffered hand, his eyes catching a fraction too long on his full lips.

Eames grins wide in reply, revealing crooked teeth. “Just Eames will do, love.”

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur amends, returning to the painting, and Eames' lips crook bemusedly.

“He looks a bit like you, doesn't he?” Eames comments, gesturing towards the painting, and Arthur levels a thoughtful gaze at the man in the painting.

“I suppose,” Arthur shrugs. “Who was your subject?”

“I didn't have one,” Eames chuckles. “This man here has always lingered in my mind.... He's in all of my paintings, if you look hard enough. The likeness between you two is uncanny, if I do say so myself.”

Arthur can't help the small smile that curls up the corners of his mouth. “Whatever you say, Mr. Eames. I quite like this one, though. What's it selling for?”

“Well,” Eames says, lightly, “Why don't I take you out for dinner after the show wraps up tonight, and we can discuss a price?”

Arthur hesitates for only a moment, a smile dimpling his cheeks. “If you'd like. I'm Arthur, by the way. I own another gallery down the street.”

“Yet another art snob come to pick apart my work,” Eames sighs, a glint in his eye, and if he lays a warm hand on the small of Arthur's back to show him around the room, Arthur supposes that's okay.

And if he takes Arthur out for fast food after the show, and makes him a badge out of the “Caution: I'm Hot” warning, then that's just fine as well.

 

iii.

** Inbox **

_Someone sent you a message, Arthur!_

Arthur cocks his head in confusion, clicking open the email. He's met by far too many animated hearts, and he rolls his eyes, mouse hovering over the delete button. He'd completely forgotten about the silly online dating profile his sister had set up for him (against his will). Because he is not desperate and lonely, as she had insisted—he is in fact quite content with being single.

He pauses, however, retreating from the delete button. The man in the photo certainly...doesn't look bad. Arthur clicks into the message, and he grins a little with amusement as he skims the contents.

_Hey, I read thru ur profile.... U sound rlly sweet! Makes me want 2 buy u lots of flowers.... Mssg me if u get the chance, love. -Eames_

Arthur gazes for a second at Eames' profile picture, noting the soft, sinfully-full lips, parted in a smile over endearingly crooked teeth.

Arthur sighs, before typing in a quick reply and hitting “send”.

_Email me if you'd like to talk.... The address is on my profile. And don't call me “love”, Eames.... We haven't even met!_

 

iv.

Eames sighs and relaxes back into his chair, letting his posture go slack for a moment. He should probably be taking notes, considering it's the first day as the TA in this class...but Eames could think of a couple of rather good reasons not to.

First of all, Mr. Foggerty, the Social Psychology prof, is the kind of professor that enjoys quirky ties, whiteboards, and rambling undisturbed for long periods of time. The students are already restless, shifting in their seats as they try to decipher the scribbles on the board. Unlike them, however, Eames can skim through Mr. Foggerty's lecture outlines at his own leisure.

The second reason is admittedly the most prominent. Looking out over the class earlier, Eames' eyes had fallen upon a bowed head, belonging to one of the few young men listening attentively and jotting notes down into their notebooks. That isn't why Eames continues looking, however—he has most definitely seen his fair share of over-achievers. His continued furtive glances have everything to do with that soft, curling dark hair, that fine-boned face, and the lithe, lean-muscled body hidden away beneath a neat dress shirt and slacks.

Eames would like to think of himself as a professional, but he's only human, after all. Any other gay man would do the same.

(At least, this is what he tells himself).

By the time the class is over, Eames has memorized the slope of the young man's shoulders, and the way his lips pull downwards slightly in concentration. Eames lingers behind a bit more than necessary, hoping to be able to follow the boy out—just to get a full view, of course.

By the time Eames looks up from his bag, the students are gone, Mr. Foggerty is looking through papers on the other side of the room, and the young man Eames had been watching is walking straight towards him.

“Mr. Eames,” he says, approaching him directly, his dark curls framing his face. “I'm Arthur. I'd like to speak with you about today's class.”

“Er,” Eames replies, intelligently, momentarily distracted by Arthur's soft-looking lips in action. “I think you'd better speak to Mr. Foggerty if you have questions..”

“But I don't want to speak to Mr. Foggerty,” Arthur answers, matter-of-fact. “I want to talk to you, because I'm 20 years old and not nearly as clueless as the other students in this class, and I saw you watching me all period long when you thought I wasn't looking.”

“That's quite an accusation,” Eames replies, seeing the glint in Arthur's eyes and playing along. “Are you flirting with me, Arthur?”

“I'm doing nothing of the sort,” Arthur denies, moving closer despite his words. “I'm just pointing out your obvious and inappropriate fixation.”

“I think you need to stay after class, Arthur,” Eames says, trying to sound stern, and Arthur smiles, his cheeks dimpling adorably.

“Of course, sir,” he nods, his shoulder brushing Eames' as he passes.

 

v.

Arthur is just picking up some milk at the local convenience store when the door slams open with a loud crack. Two men with their faces covered rush in, one of them brandishing a gun.

“Everyone down!” the one with the gun shouts, and what do these guys think this is, a bank holdup? But obviously they mean business, because the man with the gun sends a bullet into one of the freezer sections in the back, shattering the glass.

Arthur immediately heads for cover, but before he can duck away, a strong arm is winding its way around his neck and yanking him upright in front of the counter.

“Give us everything in the registers,” a rough voice commands, and Arthur freezes as cold metal presses to his temple. The cashier swallows hard and scrabbles to comply, offering the men a wad of cash.

The robber holding Arthur throws him aside in favor of shoveling the money into a bag, and Arthur loses his balance, landing squarely on the lap of another customer concealed behind a shelf.

Tattooed arms immediately wrap around his shoulders, breaking his fall, and Arthur belatedly realizes that he's shaking, caught off-guard and unarmed.

“Shh, darling, you're all right,” a softly accented voice murmurs, a large hand petting his hair soothingly, and Arthur clutches at the arm wrapped around his chest, holding on as the ruckus continues.

Soon enough the two men are gone, having taken what they'd come for, and Arthur straightens up cautiously, feeling the other man do the same behind him.

Arthur turns around, his eyes widening the slightest bit as he's met with a disarmingly handsome face.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmurs, hating the unsteadiness in his voice, and the other man smiles tiredly in reply.

“Don't mention it,” the man replies, offering his hand. “I'm Eames, by the way.”

“Arthur,” Arthur says, shaking Eames' hand and allowing his lips to twist into a half-smile as the police cars begin to arrive.

 

vi.

Eames collects his things and glances around the busy airport, watching as their team smoothly dissolves. Cobb is already long gone, having gotten through customs successfully. The newly incepted Robert is just slipping out the door, a few paces behind Saito. Yusuf and Ariadne are chatting off towards the corner of the room, looking at each other a little intensely.

And Arthur.... Uptight, infuriating, gorgeous Arthur is just hauling his luggage off the conveyor belt.

“You did good work today, Arthur, obvious condescension aside,” Eames smiles, approaching him, and Arthur regards him coolly, raising the handle on his suitcase.

“Thank you,” Arthur replies, and as much as he likes to feign indifference, Eames can see the way he hesitates just slightly once the words have passed his lips.

Eames throws caution to the wind and leans in closer, letting his hand rest on Arthur's elbow. The worst he can get is a right hook to the face, anyway.

“Perhaps we could leave in the same direction, darling.... If you're willing, of course,” Eames murmurs, close to his ear, and Arthur pulls back a bit, staring at him.

“I suppose that can be arranged,” he replies, after a long pause, the slightest upwards twist to his lips, and Eames absolutely beams at him, throwing Arthur's carry-on over his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19177.html?thread=44469993#t44469993) prompt at [inception_kink](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/).


End file.
